


time has brought your heart to me

by mycanonnevercame



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fix-It, Lots of Angst, Mutual Pining, canon-compliant except for the very end of TPS2, coffee as a love language, post season two of the Punisher, the canon ending did not spark joy so I threw it out with the trash where it belongs, vague mentions of canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:53:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22762768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycanonnevercame/pseuds/mycanonnevercame
Summary: Karen is trying to move on after the hospital, but her attempts are thwarted when Matt and Foggy decide they need some unconventional help on a case.She’s certain Frank won’t show up.Only he does.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 28
Kudos: 184





	time has brought your heart to me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from A Thousand Years by Christina Perri. Enjoy!

Foggy’s the one who brings it up.

“You haven’t had _any_ luck with Lancaster?”

“If you’re asking if I have any leads on where he might be hiding,” Karen shakes her head. “That’s a negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full.”

“Okay, Maverick, calm down,” he says, laughing in spite of her disheartening answer.

“You’ll find him,” Matt says, giving Karen a reassuring nod. Karen’s not so certain. It’s quiet for a while, the only sounds the rustling of papers and the rattle of keyboards.

“You know,” Foggy says slowly, rifling through a pile of depositions. “We do know someone who’s scary-good at tracking down gang members... emphasis on _scary_...”

Matt cocks his head thoughtfully, considering the implications. Karen is way ahead of him, her entire body flushing and then going cold from the swirl of anger and pain and longing the suggestion triggers. She clenches her teeth to keep from snapping at Foggy, who is oblivious to her inner turmoil. Matt frowns in her direction before turning back to his best friend, and she tries desperately to get a handle on her emotions.

They’ve only had the firm back together for a few months, and Karen is still struggling with the complete lack of privacy in Matt’s presence that she is now excruciatingly aware of. She knows he can’t exactly help it that he can hear _everything_ , but it’s driving her insane that all of her emotions are an open book to him. It makes her feel vulnerable and exposed in a way she’s not used to or comfortable with.

“I don’t think Castle would be inclined to help us put this guy behind bars,” Matt says, surprisingly mild.

Foggy frowns, clearly frustrated. “I know, but we don’t have a chance of holding Lancaster responsible for his crimes if we can’t even find him,” he says. “You remember what happened to the Irish and the Dogs. None of them escaped.”

“That’s kind of the problem, Fog,” Matt says.

“Ugh, I know.” Foggy slumps back in his chair in defeat. “It was just a thought,” he says to the ceiling.

They move on and Karen breathes a sigh of relief. She shoves thoughts of Frank Castle firmly into the little box in her mind labeled “Feelings to Deal with Later or Maybe Never” and focuses on doing her job.

Hours later, she’s at her desk, trying to ignore the headache she’s given herself from fending off thoughts of Frank. The boys left ages ago, and she’s not getting any work done at this point, so she finally gives in and opens the Maybe-Never Feelings box, pulling out her most recent memory of him to torture herself with, his voice echoing painfully in her ears.

_I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to._

He’d looked so terrified and it broke her heart. It’s the only time she’s ever been certain Frank was lying to her. She knew he didn’t mean it, he _couldn’t_ , especially when just seconds later he was trailing her across the room, leaning up into her space, so close to kissing her that she would have thrown something at Amy if her hands hadn’t been full of Frank when the girl interrupted them.

Turns out the only one lying was Karen — to herself. His complete radio silence in the months since the hospital proves that. The longer he’s gone the more it hurts and the more certain she is that there’s nothing to be done. She leans her elbows on her desk and buries her face in her hands, fighting back the tears that are pricking her eyes. She shouldn’t still miss him this much. It shouldn’t still hurt this much.

“Karen?”

She rears back in her chair, heart thundering. “Christ, Matt!” She gasps, hurriedly wiping her face even though Matt can probably taste the salt in the air or something. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He has his hands up in a placating gesture, and she relaxes with an effort. “Are you—“ he starts, but she cuts him off because if he asks her if she’s okay she will completely lose her shit.

“I thought you left,” she says, trying not to sound like she’s accusing him of something. “What’s up?”

“I was thinking... about what Foggy said,” he says warily, and her heart sinks. She’d been hoping the conversation earlier had been merely theoretical, just a passing idea discarded for something more logical.

She hasn’t exactly kept Matt or Foggy informed about her ongoing... relationship with Frank. Matt missed the whole shitshow at the hotel due to being ‘dead,’ and while Foggy had been worried when he saw the news, she’d been able to keep him in the dark about her role in Frank’s escape.

Similarly, they may have noticed that she’d disappeared at the height of the latest Punisher media frenzy, but she’d gone straight home from the hospital so neither of them could possibly have more than a vague suspicion about her whereabouts at the time. She remembers getting one text from Foggy about Frank being in the news. She’d texted back — _think he knows we got the band back together? I wonder who’s representing him_ — and Foggy’s horrified response — _no WAY am I letting you and Matt talk me into a round two_ — had been the end of it.

The unfortunate side effect of keeping Frank secret is that she can’t reasonably expect Matt and Foggy to know not to bring him up now.

“What about it?” She asks with false indifference, fully aware that Matt can hear her heart hammering in her chest at the mere mention of Frank.

“I was thinking that maybe it’s not such a bad idea,” he says. “If we can convince him to help us... well, I know how he usually operates, but I thought we might be able to talk him out of killing Lancaster since this one wouldn’t be... well, _personal_.”

Karen snorts. “Frank doesn’t really do _personal_ anymore,” she says bitterly. Matt’s frown deepens, so she goes on before he can ask what she means or how she knows that. “Why are you talking to me about this? If you want to bring Frank in, go ahead, I won’t stop you.” Fuck, she sounds antagonistic as hell.

“Well, that’s the thing, I don’t know how to contact him,” Matt says. “I can try tracking him down on my own, but he never really liked talking to me.” His voice is heavy with the reminder that Frank had always preferred talking to Karen.

“Well, so much for that idea,” she says, a little too brightly. The silence stretches out, and she starts tidying her desk and gathering her stuff, carefully not looking at Matt.

He sighs. “Karen.”

“Hmm?” She shoves a few files into her desk drawer.

“Do you know how to get in touch with Frank?”

She stills. Squeezes her eyes shut, like maybe if she can’t see Matt he’ll go away. It doesn’t work.

“I... might have a way,” she says, cringing at the admission. Matt’s a study in disapproval which is annoying as fuck because he’s asking for her help and he’s the one that wants to talk to Frank in the first damn place. “Just... no promises, and it might take a few days, okay?” She has no idea if this will even work, but Matt doesn’t have a lot of options so she figures it’s worth a shot.

“Of course, Karen,” he says, voice calm and reasonable as always, at odds with the frown marring his brow. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you on Monday.” She slams her desk drawer shut and flees.

She makes it home in record time, a little surprised that Matt hadn’t insisted on walking with her and refusing to check the rooftops for his silhouette. Her apartment is blissfully dark and quiet when she gets home. She shuts the door behind her and throws the deadbolts, leaning back against it and trying to ignore the crushing loneliness that always hits her when she gets home these days. 

Eventually she dumps her bag by the door, shucks out of her coat and tosses it on the back of the couch, kicks her heels off. She pours a glass of bourbon to sip while she gets ready for bed and takes it into the bedroom with her.

She likes the pencil skirts and the heels and the dresses, but it’s always a relief to get out of them at the end of a long day and put on an oversized t-shirt over bare legs. Home time is no-pants time, as far as Karen is concerned. Not that she wears pants very often, but the principle is there. The term is a holdover from the days when she lived in jeans and flannels.

Back out in the main room, she turns on the lamp by the window. The roses are in their pot on the island, looking none the worse for wear after their brief stint in the trash. She’d thrown them away after the hospital, only to dig them out half an hour later. Call her a sentimental fool, but she couldn’t let them go. She’s not really sure how she’s managed to keep them alive since then — it’s like they’re thriving out of spite.

Steeling herself, she grabs the pot and sets it on the windowsill, leaving the lamp on so they’ll be visible out on the street.

“He’s not coming,” she says aloud, knocking back the rest of her bourbon. It burns all the way down. “He’s _not_.”

Unsurprisingly, she can’t sleep. She dozes off a couple times, only to jerk awake at the slightest sound. She’s never noticed how much the pipes clang or how loudly the windows rattle with every passing breeze before. It’s after one a.m. and she’s on the verge of giving up and trying to do something productive when someone knocks on her door.

She sits bolt upright in bed, listening with all her might. It’s quiet for long enough that she thinks she must’ve imagined it. She’s just starting to berate herself for having a ridiculously overactive imagination when she hears it again. She stumbles out of bed, barely remembering to grab her pistol from her nightstand — safety first, it’s the middle of the night, and anyway, if it _is_ Frank, he’d be disappointed if she didn’t answer the door with a loaded gun in her hand — as she heads for the door.

“It’s not him, it’s not him,” she chants under her breath, glaring at the roses on her way past. She doesn’t want to see Frank again, because of how much she does want to see Frank again. And she knows exactly how unlikely it is for him to show up here, only a few hours after she ‘called,’ and she doesn’t like that she still has this much hope inside her, all attached to Frank Castle.

“It’s not him,” she says again, and presses her eye to the peephole.

It’s him.

She blinks and stumbles a surprised half-step back from the door.

_Seriously?_ He shows up _now?_

Un. Fucking. Real.

Karen throws the bolts and yanks the door open so she can glare at him. He looks amazing, dressed in shades of black and grey. His face is free of cuts and bruises, and he’s clean shaven but he’s grown his hair out again, soft curls falling around his ears and over his forehead.

“Hey,” he says, his voice like gravel and velvet. He gives her the once-over, lips twitching in approval at the gun in her hand, those dark eyes lingering on her legs for a long moment. He blinks and drags his gaze up to her face and she remembers belatedly that she’s not wearing any pants, just a big t-shirt, the hem of it brushing the tops of her thighs. She flushes and tries to slam the door in his face, but he sticks out a hand to stop her.

“Karen—“

“God _damn it_ , Frank,” she says, storming back into her apartment, giving him no choice but to follow. His footsteps are silent, but she hears the door latch followed by the click of the locks, so she knows he’s on this side of it without looking.

Not that she’s ever needed to look to know where he is — she can _feel_ his presence, can pinpoint his exact location as he moves through her apartment. She sets her pistol on the counter to keep from giving in to the temptation to shoot him. He’s watching her, face impassive, but his eyes — the intensity is still there, following her every move, and she can feel his gaze like a physical touch. It takes all her self control not to offer him something to drink or ask how he is or throw her arms around him and hold on for dear life. She grabs the pot of roses and moves them back to their spot on the island, mostly as something to do that isn’t staring at Frank, but she immediately regrets it because now he’s looking at them and she doesn’t want to talk about the fact that she kept them.

“I didn’t really think you’d show up,” she says. She glances at him from the corner of her eye in time to see him frown.

“Why would you think that?” He growls, and she rounds on him.

“Seriously? You can ask me that?”

His gaze jerks away and he rolls his shoulders, tips his face up to sigh at the ceiling. “Fine. Why did you even try, if you thought I wouldn’t come?” His voice is thick with frustration and she feels a little stab of vindication. At least they’re _both_ frustrated.

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea,” she says. “Technically, it was Foggy’s, and Matt is running with it. He wants your help with something, he just didn’t know how to get in touch.”

Frank rocks back on his heels a little. “Red wants help. From me.” His skepticism is palpable.

“Yeah, that’s what I just said,” she snaps. She doesn’t miss the nickname, or what it implies. _Of course_ Frank knows Matt is Daredevil. It makes her want to hit something for some reason.

“He know about us?”

She sucks in a breath. The audacity of the man. “You are such an _asshole_. There’s no _us_ , Frank. You made sure of that. But it wouldn’t be Matt’s business if there was.”

His scowl deepens.

“Just call him,” she says, silently cursing Matt for getting her into this situation as she scribbles his number on a scrap of paper and shoves it across the island at Frank. He takes it after a moment’s hesitation and puts it in his coat pocket without really looking at it. He’s staring at the roses again, and she refuses to look at him.

“You kept them,” he says quietly. It takes her a long moment to respond.

“Yeah,” she finally says, angry and miserable. She hates that she kept them and hates that he knows she kept them. Feels stupid for hanging on to what little she has left of him. _All heart_ echoes in her ear, and it feels like an indictment.

“Why?”

“Guess I’m a masochist,” she snaps flippantly. His stoic facade finally cracks a little, she can fucking _see_ how much he still cares and — no, uh uh, she cannot _do this_ anymore. “Time for you to go,” she says, heading for the door. She yanks it open and gestures sharply for him to _get out_ , and he reluctantly follows her down the little hall.

He stops in front of her, close enough that she can feel his body heat reaching out to envelope her. She can smell his scent, metallic and smoky and warm, and she sways toward him just a little. Stupid traitorous body. She’s avoiding his gaze, and he’s doing that thing where he cocks his head to the side and looks up at her through his lashes.

“Karen.” It’s not a question, it’s not even an attempt to gain her attention, not really, because when she finally looks up he doesn’t say anything. He just stares at her, eyes roving her face like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

“Goodbye, Frank,” she says. It comes out more gently than she intended, and she has no idea what expression she’s wearing. He looks at her a moment longer and nods.

“Take care, Ms. Page,” he says, and then he’s gone, and she’s cold and alone again.

She spends the weekend trying not to think about it. She definitely does not analyze the exact amount of time between when she put the roses on her windowsill and when Frank arrived. She does _not_ replay the moment in her doorway, because it didn’t mean anything. It _didn’t_.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, she’s exhausted and looking for _anything_ to distract herself, which means she’s at the office at seven a.m. What follows is the most frustrating week of Karen’s existence.

Frank is _everywhere_.

He’s on the other end of Matt’s phone conversation on Monday afternoon. He’s in a truck waiting outside the firm on Wednesday night as they lock up, there to pick up Matt for some kind of reconnaissance outing. He’s a series of grunts and monosyllabic responses in the office next to hers as Foggy tries valiantly to make conversation and she pretends she’s not trying to eavesdrop. He’s behind every too-casual silence from Matt, and Foggy’s sudden renewed interest in just exactly what happened at the hotel.

She catches hardly a glimpse of him, yet his presence is inescapable. And all it does it drive home just how far out of reach he really is.

He finds their stupid gangster. Michael Lancaster gets picked up by the police after they receive an anonymous tip that he was hiding out in an abandoned warehouse at the docks. The cops find him, beat to hell but still alive, and bring him in without difficulty. Foggy gets a call from Mahoney, and Karen breathes a sigh of relief.

Frank will disappear again and things will go back to normal. She desperately ignores the sharp spike of disappointment the thought brings.

Only he doesn’t disappear.

He keeps working with Matt. His conversations with Foggy in the office next to hers grow less and less stunted. She pushes herself harder on her cases, buries herself in work, but it doesn’t help. She has a constant feeling as though she’s put down something important and now she can’t find it again. And Frank is just... around, sometimes. No apparent agenda. On the rare occasions when they bump into each other in the hall, he nods at her and calls her ma’am or Ms. Page and she pretends her heart doesn’t slam into overdrive each and every time.

He hasn’t said her name since that moment in her doorway weeks ago. In a way it’s a relief. Her name on his lips is an intimacy she’s not emotionally able to handle right now.

She’s in her office late one afternoon when there’s a knock on her slightly-open-but-not-invitingly-so door. “Come in,” she calls without looking up from the crime scene photos she’s studying. The door swings open and two booted feet enter her peripheral vision. The avocados aren’t really boot-wearing types.

She looks up into Frank’s big brown eyes and freezes.

He’s scowling thoughtfully, and he has a paper cup of coffee in one hand, a small curl of steam escaping the lid. He takes a few steps closer and sets it on the desk in front of her, steps back toward the door, holding her gaze the whole time.

“You work too much, ma’am,” he says, and then he’s gone, closing her office door gently behind him.

Karen stares at the closed door for a long moment before warily eyeing the coffee cup on her desk like it’s a live grenade. She thinks it might be a peace offering. She carefully sets down the photo she’s holding and reaches for the cup. The heat seeps into her chilled fingers, and she closes her eyes, inhaling the steam. It smells like heaven, so she takes a tentative sip.

It _tastes_ like heaven.

She swallows, hard, as her throat closes up and her eyes fill with tears. He fixed it just the way she likes it, and it hurts, because she’s only fixed herself a cup of coffee in front of him one time, and he’d been using her as bait so memorizing how she takes her coffee shouldn’t have been anywhere near his list of priorities. It never occurred to her he might’ve been paying attention. How the hell is she supposed to move on if he shows up within hours of her summons and helps her friends and is always around and remembers how she takes her coffee?

She sniffles and takes another sip. 

“Hey, Karen,” Foggy says as he comes through the door. “What did you do with— oh my god, what’s wrong?”

“This is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had,” she sobs.

He stares at her for a moment, sympathy lining his face. “This is about Castle, isn’t it?” He finally says. Karen nods helplessly. Drinks more coffee. She doesn’t want it to go cold.

“You two are really stupid.”

“Hey!” Karen protests. She’s not the stupid one, Frank is.

“What? You are,” Foggy insists. “Both of you too stubborn to admit you’re crazy about each other, but if you think the rest of us haven’t noticed, I’ve got news for you.”

“I did though.” Karen looks down at the paper cup in her hand. “I admitted it to him, and he didn’t want me.”

“Come on, Karen, that can’t be true,” Foggy says, settling into the chair across from her. “I see the way you two look at each other. It’s definitely not one-sided.”

She sighs. “No, he cares. But it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t _want_ to. I offered him an alternative and he chose this never-ending war instead of—“ she breaks off.

Understanding dawns on Foggy’s face. “No wonder you’ve been avoiding him,” he mutters. “But... are you sure he chose the war? Because I don’t think he’s, you know, _punishing_ these days.”

“What makes you say that?” Karen digs for a tissue in her purse to hide her intense interest.

“Well, for starters, he’s never covered in cuts and bruises anymore. A few on his knuckles after he tracked down Lancaster, but that doesn’t really count for Castle.” He leans back in his seat a little. “But mostly it’s some stuff Matt has said about them working together.”

“I’m surprised he’s been so chill about working with Frank,” Karen admits, wiping her eyes. “Everything’s always been so black and white to him.”

“I think he’s finally mellowing in his old age,” Foggy quips, and she laughs. “But yeah, he seems to think Castle has retired. And, I mean, not that I think Castle would talk about his, um, _activities_ with me, but the stuff he does talk about is all pretty normal.”

There was a time when Karen would have known that information well before anyone else, and she feels an irrational burst of jealousy that Matt found out first. She shakes it off while she finishes her coffee.

“What do you two talk about?” She asks, her curiosity about Foggy’s semi-regular conversations with Frank finally winning out over her need to distance herself from him.

Foggy shrugs. “Books, mostly. Whatever case Matt has him helping with. The Rangers. Stuff like that.”

It all sounds so... normal. She thinks the closest she’s ever come to a normal conversation with Frank was when she told him about breaking into his house and they talked about toy dinosaurs and needing to get away sometimes. Their conversations normally have such high stakes riding on them. She wonders what it would be like to just... talk.

“Look, Karen— he hasn’t told me any details, but I get the impression that he knows he messed up with you,” Foggy says. “I don’t think he knows what to do about it, but he’s miserable, too.”

Karen leans her elbows on her desk and buries her face in her hands, groaning. After a moment, she rakes her fingers through her hair and looks at Foggy. “It’s his own damn fault,” she says, but for the first time in weeks, she feels hopeful.

Maybe things can turn out in her favor for once.

Frank doesn’t come by the office for the rest of the week, and it gives Karen the breathing room she needs to decide what she really wants.

If Foggy is right, and Frank isn’t engaging in another war, she wants to know why. If he thinks he made a mistake pushing her away in that hospital room... well, she doesn’t understand why he did it, but maybe she wants to. She thinks... maybe they’ve both suffered enough in this life. They deserve the chance at some happiness.

She just has to give him the chance to have the conversation. Assuming Frank isn’t going to throw it back in her face. Again. She won’t pretend she’s not worried about him doing just that. His track record so far has him running scared every time.

She just has to decide if the risks are worth it. On the one hand, she’s not sure her heart can take another hit. On the other...

Yeah, okay, she’s definitely going to take the chance.

On Saturday afternoon, she puts the roses on the windowsill again. Since she’s terrible at waiting, she pulls out her grandmother’s old recipe box and chooses something to make that will take some time. She doesn’t cook often, but she does enjoy it on the rare occasions when she’s willing to put in the effort.

She makes a loaf of bread and a big pot of stew, all from scratch, and sets the table for two. She uses her good china, that she found in a thrift store years ago. While the food is cooking she changes into her comfiest jeans and a soft pink sweater. She’s just taking the bread out of the oven when there’s a knock on the door.

She makes him wait, just a little bit. Finishes getting the bread out and turns off the oven. Pauses to take a deep breath.

“Hey,” she says as she opens the door, biting her lip nervously. She can’t help the tiny smile that touches the corner of her mouth at the sight of Frank shifting from foot to foot, at least as nervous as she is. He’s wearing a pea coat over a soft chambray shirt and black jeans, and he’s strangling a bottle of wine in his big hands, knuckles gone white he’s gripping the bottle so tightly. His hair is dark and lush and she’s itching to bury her fingers in it, she really likes it when he grows it out, those soft curls matching the softness she knows is inside him.

“Hey,” he says. He looks so uncomfortable. “You, uh, you called?”

She takes a step back in invitation. “Yeah, you want to come in?” He nods and hands her the wine, and she wonders how he knew to bring it.

“Thanks,” she says as he moves past her. She closes the door so he can’t bolt, which turns out to have probably been a good idea when he catches sight of the table.

“You expecting someone? I can go—“ he starts, turning back as if to leave, but she’s in his way and she grabs his arm before he can take more than a step.

“I’m expecting _you_ ,” she says firmly, holding his gaze and feeling extremely vulnerable. Neither of them so much as breathes for a moment, and then his free hand comes to rest on her hip and the tension bleeds out of his shoulders and he nods.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. She releases him and slips out of his grasp.

“Boots off,” she says over her shoulder as she heads into the kitchen, intentionally adding one more obstacle in the way of any quick departure he might try, though she’d deny it if he called her on it. She refuses to watch as he shrugs out of his coat and kicks off his shoes. She does _not_ want to know what Frank Castle looks like settling into her apartment. That’s one mental image she’s going to save herself from if this goes sideways. She’ll have plenty of opportunities to see it if everything works out the way she wants.

An examination of the wine label reveals that Frank has good taste in Cabernet, so she pops open the bottle to let it breathe while the stew finishes cooking.

“Can I help with anything?” Frank’s voice is soft at her shoulder, and she turns to see him rolling up his sleeves.

“Nothing to do, really,” she says, shaking her head and pretending her heart isn’t about to pound out of her chest. “We’ve got another half hour or so on the stew. You want a beer while we wait?”

He nods. “Please.”

She digs around in her fridge. “What do you like?”

“I’m not picky,” he says. She picks a couple bottles at random and shoves the door shut with her hip.

He already has her bottle opener out of the drawer where she keeps it and she blinks at it, dwarfed in Frank’s big hand. He wraps his free hand around hers on one bottle, holding her steady as he pops the cap off, and repeats the process on the second one. His hands are warm. She watches, a little dazed, as he puts the bottle opener away in the correct place and tosses the caps in the trash.

“So why’d you call?” He asks as she hands him his beer. She goes still, fingers locked around the bottleneck, before consciously relaxing her grip. She doesn’t point out that the cryptic floral Bat-signal they’ve been using doesn’t qualify as calling.

“You remember how I take my coffee,” she says after a moment, like that’s an answer. Maybe it is. She takes a sip of her beer and heads for the couch. He follows her after a beat and sits carefully next to her, not touching, but close enough that only a small shift would change that.

“I remember everything about you,” he says when she doesn’t go on, so quietly that she’s not sure she didn’t imagine it until he continues. “Your perfume. The way you hold your pen. The look in your eyes when you’re giving me hell.” He’s frowning down at his drink, shoulders just slightly hunched. “My memory’s kinda shit since I woke up from that coma, but, uh— I’ve never had any trouble holding on to you.”

She bites her lip, because fuck him for saying shit like that after the hospital. “Foggy says you’re retired.” It’s another seemingly random statement, but one thing she and Frank have always been good at is communicating. She wants so badly for Foggy to be right, for Frank to have something beyond his endless crusade. But it will also mean that Frank truly didn’t want to choose _her_ , in that hospital room — that he didn’t want an after that had her in it.

She feels him turn to look at her, and she has to take a couple deep breaths before she can manage to meet his gaze. He looks a little sad, like he knows he’s about to hurt her, and he nods.

“He’s right,” he says.

She closes her eyes, nodding. “Okay,” she says, her voice shaking. “That’s— that’s good.”

It _is_ good.

It just also hurts like hell.

“Do you, um. Do you live in the city? Do you have a job?” The questions are mundane, the kind of thing she’d ask an acquaintance she hasn’t seen in a while, not things she’d expect to have to ask a man who’s taken multiple bullets for her.

“Uh, yeah, I live about three blocks from here,” he says. “Got a job training service dogs.”

“That’s great, Frank. I’m r-really happy for you.” Fuck, she’s going to cry.

“Karen—“ It’s the first time he’s said her name in weeks, and it breaks her heart.

“Listen, you don’t owe me anything, okay?” She says over whatever he’s about to say, desperate to reassure him that she won’t force her company on him or expect him to keep protecting her. She sets her drink on the end table. “You don’t have to keep an eye on me or, or show up just because I put flowers on my windowsill. You don’t want to, and that’s— that’s okay. It’s fine.” Maybe if she says it enough they’ll both believe it.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he growls, setting his beer down on the coffee table with a thunk. She blinks as he turns to face her. “I owe you everything, Karen. _Everything_. I’d’ve been killed in prison or in some CIA coverup if not for you. I’d never have figured out what happened to my family. I’d have gone down for killing those women.”

She’s shaking her head, because he’s wrong, he escaped from prison without her help, he figured out the CIA stuff, all she did was point him at Micro. And Madani is smart, she would’ve figured out that Frank didn’t kill those women. Probably.

“Karen, if you call me, I’m going to show up, because I goddamn want to, you got that?”

“You don’t have to,” she tells him. He’s got to stop saying her name like that. “I can take care of myself.”

He actually _rolls his eyes at her_. “I know that,” he snaps. “You’re a goddamn spitfire, you’re the most capable person I know, but I’m still gonna come running when you call. Even if it’s the middle of the night, even if all you do is yell at me for a few minutes and then kick me out.”

“Maybe you should give me your phone number, then,” she says before she can stop herself. His eyebrow quirks softly.

“You planning on calling more?”

“I guess that depends on how the rest of this conversation goes,” she tells him honestly.

“That’s fair.”

“How long have you been retired?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He takes a sip of his beer and sets the bottle back on the coffee table. He slouches back into the cushions with a sigh, turning to look at her. “Can I tell you something else before I answer that?” She hesitates. “Please. It’s important.”

She looks at him and nods.

“That day, in the hospital,” he says, shifting in his seat again, sitting up a little straighter. She’s never seen Frank like this — he’s _fidgeting_. Her gaze drops to his hands, and sure enough, his trigger finger is tapping on his thigh. That grounds her, a little — it’s normal, at least, even if the rest of it is strange. “That was probably the darkest place I’ve been in since we met. But you were there, you stayed with me, and when I told you what happened. What I _thought_ happened — nothing changed, for you. You still—“ he breaks off, throat working as he swallows whatever he was about to say. “Nothing changed,” he finally says again.

“And then, later... Madani needed my help to deal with Russo, and the kid needed me because of the Schultzes, and every cop in the city was out to get me and you— you were just going to throw everything away for me, and I couldn’t risk you. No matter how much I wanted what you offered, I couldn’t let you stick around while I dealt with that other shit, I couldn’t run the risk of Russo or the Schultzes finding out about us and, and—“ he can’t even finish the sentence, so she does it for him.

“And using me to get to you,” she says, her voice quiet. He looks at her, and she’s never seen him look so vulnerable before.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Madani, the kid... they were already up to their necks in that shitshow, but you?” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t let that happen. But you weren’t gonna go without a fight, so... I lied.”

“You lied,” she repeats. “About what?”

“About wanting to choose the war.” His voice is sad. “About not wanting to love someone else.”

“I fucking _knew it_ ,” she snaps. “I _knew_ you were lying.” He snorts, a reluctant smile wiping some of the care from his face. Suddenly she’s the one who can’t sit still. She surges up off the couch to pace back and forth on the other side of the coffee table.

“I’m that transparent, huh?”

She throws him a look that’s part incredulity, part exasperation.

“So when did you retire, then?” She asks again.

“About two weeks after the hospital.”

“That was months ago,” she says flatly. He nods.

“So if... if _you_ wanted to... and _I_ wanted to...” She comes to a stop, both verbally and physically, and turns to look at Frank. “Then where the hell have you been?”

He looks up at her helplessly, finger still tapping on his thigh. He looks as war torn and weary as ever, for all that he’s also healthier than she’s ever seen him, and he half-shrugs at her.

“Being a chickenshit?”

She actually laughs a little at that, a weak little chuckle that feels like it has the beginnings of joy inside it.

“I also kinda thought... maybe I was staying out of the way,” he says, frowning. At her questioning look, he explains. “Of you and Murdock.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she snaps. “Matt and I are _not_ a thing.”

“Yeah, he was pretty quick to disabuse me of that notion. Said you were friends, and that you trust him... just not with your heart.”

“He’s right,” she says, a little surprised to hear that Matt was so honest with Frank. She stares at him, at a little bit of a loss for how to deal with all of these confessions. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I guess that’s up to you,” he says. “Karen— I can’t promise that I’ll never kill anyone again. If I see something and I can do something about it, I’m going to do it. But I’m not seeking it out anymore. I’ve got a steady job, and I go to a support group twice a week. I’m trying to... I don’t know. Have an after. Live this second life Curt‘s always going on about.”

Karen bites her lip, trying to hide her smile.

“I know I hurt you, that day in the hospital,” he goes on. “I’m sorry. And I want to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.”

The smile breaks free. “I think I’d like that,” she says, nodding. “I think I’d like that a lot.”

Frank stands up slowly, makes his way carefully across the few short feet separating them. He slides his hands around her waist, pulling her close enough to drop his forehead against hers.

“Fuck, am I glad to hear you say that,” he whispers as their noses brush. Karen is a little embarrassed to hear herself giggle in response, but she’s just so damned relieved and happy and hopeful for the future in a way she hasn’t been in a long, long time.

After dinner, they sit sprawled on the couch together, sipping bourbon and talking a little, but mostly just enjoying a quiet evening together.

“You gonna move them back to the island?” Frank asks, and Karen follows his gaze to where it rests on the roses, still in their spot on the windowsill. She considers them for a moment, glowing in the last of the light from the setting sun, an unmistakable and open invitation to the man sitting beside her. Shakes her head.

“No,” she says, looking at Frank. “I think they’re where they belong.”

He smiles, and she knows they’re going to be okay.


End file.
